


On the Creation of Word Rhythm

by Nightmist



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: AU, College AU, F/M, Roegadyn Warrior of Light, Smut, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Vibrators, filthy poetry, oops (thanks Microsoft Works!), powerplay/BDSM elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: Collegiate(ish) AU: Local award-winning poet Solus Galvus takes up the tutoring of the Roegadyn Warrior star of the athletics department and introduces some theories on the importance of pacing when you read.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: May-U Fic Exchange 2020





	On the Creation of Word Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> Happy May-U! <3
> 
> I got a request for Emet/WoL and a Roegadyn, which influenced some choices here. There is, in fact, a web collection of women doing what this fic describes and honestly, that sort of dramatically artsy smut seemed just right for certain ancient Architects. 
> 
> My apologies to Shelley for using bits of one of his poems for this. That's what happens when went into the common domain centuries ago, sorry.

The best thing about The Crystal Tower, Solus mused, was that since it had rebranded itself as a modern "gastropub," it was largely too fussy and too expensive for the college students. This meant that the music, even when live, was kept at a level where he could enjoy it without destroying his hearing, that the imported drinks were kept well stocked, the food was significantly improved, and the number of gossiping early twenty-somethings staring at him and tittering behind their hands about the great, reclusive local celebrity writer were few and far between. Sadly, this did not mean that they were absent entirely, as was proven tonight by a tall, muscular Roegadyn woman who kept eyeing him at his private booth from across the bar.

For that matter, he was fairly sure that he recognized her; if he was not to be mistaken in his identification, this was the current star of the Warriors, all-around shining athlete and the school's darling. He would be less honest if he claimed to remember any of the sports she participated in, other than that at least one of them had led to some remarkably flattering pictures of her in shorts and a tank top on the front page of the local sports section. Why the school's athletic wonder had singled him out, however, was an entirely different question. 

When the waiter returns around to check on his drinks, he sighs and asks him to extend an invitation to the young lady in question. When she approaches his table, it is with neither hesitation nor swagger; she is not posturing or showing off and she is not afraid of him either. For a moment, his eyes narrow in thought, golden gaze sweeping from head down to toe and back up again. When they meet hers as she reaches the table, she smiles and he finally sees a touch of self-consciousness, a hint of nerves that he expected. "I guess you noticed me looking."

"It would be terribly hard not to, I'm afraid. Even if you weren't taller than most folks in this bar, you are rather poor at concealing your gaze. Is there something you wanted from me or are you merely taken with gawking at those out to enjoy a pleasant evening of libations and cuisine in a familiar place?"

To his surprise, she even takes that as an invitation to sit down, sliding into the booth, although not close to him. So at least she has that much of a sense of decency and etiquette. "Forgive me if this is a rude question. You're Solus Galvus, right?"

Curling one hand around his glass, he spares her a droll look over the rim before taking a sip. "Goodness. You managed to recognize me. Let me guess, it was the third eye that gave me away, wasn't it?" Flush with embarrassment, she looks away for a moment, clearly not having expected so dismissive of an attitude.

After a brief moment, she regains her pride and soldiers on ahead. He supposes he has to respect that much, at least. No need to show that, however, and years of experience had long since trained him into the perfect Resting Bored Face. "Is it also true that you're the man who writes under the pen name Emet-Selch?"

Well. Not an unheard-of bit of gossip, at all, but not what he'd have expected from a woman who he gathers is better known for her muscles than for the extent of her academic achievement. Or probably intellectual achievement either, although it would be best not to assume too far on that until he has more experience. "Perhaps. What different would it make to you if I am? Forgive me for being blunt, but I am reasonably sure you do not have a poetry volume you wish signed concealed somewhere in that…" He drops his gaze again, letting a rich ribbon of scorn wrap his voice. "Dress? I suppose it can't be a nightgown if you're wearing it here."

He can see one of her hands clench into a fist atop the table; she isn't used to being prodded or looked down on. However, whatever she wants is dear enough that instead of leaving, the woman swallows and slowly relaxes her muscles. "I hear you sometimes tutor students who have potential in writing but need help. I'm having some trouble getting through my senior creative writing seminar." She cants her chin up, regaining pride and a little challenge. "Scholarships mean I can't afford to do that. A… friend told me to look for you here."

He has occasionally done this; he also usually considers it an opportunity to develop a new lover to amuse him for a semester or two and chooses the candidates himself. The past few years, however, have been busy enough that he has almost never bothered, and the notion should have fallen out of the rumor mill. Which means… the one who planted the notion in her head was more likely one of his colleagues. Interesting. What about this "Warrior" caught so much attention they thought she might be better diverted to his discretion?

"Sometimes is a generous term for it. I have no intention of wasting my time with those who are utterly hopeless." He leans back against the plush back of the booth, laying a trail of words like breadcrumbs. "Be here tomorrow night at eight, sharp. Bring your writing so far; all of it, hard copy, please, so I may take it with me. And do wear something better suited for dining with adults." He drops his gaze openly to her cleavage, then down to her hem, letting all the weight of disappointment fill his gaze. It's almost cute, the way it makes her wilt slightly.

She flushes and swallows a protest. Either her grade is truly abysmal, or she's so used to listening to her coaches that she's already accepted him in the same role. When she gives a quick jerk of her head in a nod, he's sure she's accepted before she speaks. "I can do that. Until then, Mr. Galvus."

\-----

The most frustrating part, he finds on gaining access to her work, is that she does, in fact, have potential. It appears in fragments throughout her coursework, flashes of insight, or a few words in a phrase that are crafted as finely as a Ming vase. The problem is that most of the time, it's clear there is an utter lack of discipline or focus surrounding them, to say nothing of how woefully unaware she is of details like the need for structure or the proper internal rhythm of a piece. After several lessons in reading aloud, after making her listen to recordings of poetry, after making her listen to him reading, Solus begins to despair.

Then a chance click on the web brings a rather delightful possibility to mind. On her next visit, he raises a hand before her introduction even begins, fingers spread slightly and his chin half-dipped as if to turn away. "You are an exasperating student. I have some notions for what I think will help you develop the proper focus and discipline you need, but given how woeful your attempts have been thus far, further lessons will come only under a condition." He lowers his lashes slightly, a dark veil shadowing the sun like the first penumbra of an eclipse. "To continue, you will have to agree to allow me to have access to you in an… intimate manner."

There's a flash of pink tongue against lips. How intriguing: he thinks he is not only not put off by the idea, but may actually be desiring it, no matter how well she thinks she is hiding it. "Just to be clear here, by intimate, you mean sexual? Am I allowed to say no if it's something I think I won't like?"

He spreads his hands, wide and dramatic, eyes widening in mock shock. "My dear! I don't know what you take me for, but I am not so melodramatically cackling villain, looking merely to have my dastardly way with you. While I will expect you to listen and apply yourself, if something is too taxing or uncomfortable, there will be opportunity to change your mind or evade. I am not a cruel teacher, am I?" Although that might depend on how she feels about the way he lectures her.

In the Warrior athlete's defense, she takes her time in considering the possibility. Of course, she also fails to hide an altogether too curious glance down at his groin, at which he has to suppress a laugh. "I… alright. I do want to learn how to do this right."

"Excellent. I have something set up for you in the living room." He leads the way through the small hallway of his old but exquisitely maintained Victorian, occasionally trailing a fingertip over a piece of favorite furniture as he passes or stopping to adjust the flowers in the vases. He keeps few things, but those that he does he makes sure are created with true skill and passion. In the living room, he steps aside, showing her where a small wooden table is set with a glass and pitcher of water, condensation beading on the outside, and an open volume of poetry. And a wooden chair, upon which has been angled the wand-like body and large head of a powerful vibrator. 

She stares, mouth dropping open slightly, then stares back at him. This motion is repeated several times before enough focus is managed to openly question him. "... You're going to make me read poetry out loud while being… uh…" Like the dawn breaking over rugged but beautiful cliffs, a slow smug smile drags up the corners of his lips. 

"While being pleasured? Well. Only if you're paying attention to the rhythm as you read. You see, if you do not…" Pulling forth a small remote from the pocket of his tailored vest, he clicks it on, the toy setting to life as a distant rumble like incoming summer thunder on the horizon. A flick of his thumb, and it dulls to a quiescent, barely audible hum. "Alas, it might not feel so pleasant. Assuming, of course, that you can manage the challenge, my dear. Or is this too much for you already?"

Her eyes go steely with defiance and determination; the flash of will and his power over it are as sweet in her mouth as the finest honey and just as thickly rich. "Of course, I can manage it." 

Stubborn footsteps carry her to the chair, then she pauses, considering the vibrator and the more decorous clothing he encourages her to wear to lessons. Then, gaze on him with continued challenge, she shoves her pleated skirt up high enough to bare a flash of dark panties, moving to straddle the chair and nestling the front of them right up against that bulbous, trembling head. Oh, this is going to be too delicious. Already, he can see a slight flush to her face, a slight increase in the intake of breath, and the thing is barely on.

"Page 47, if you please." He orders languidly and gestures at the book with the remote. Obediently, she starts flipping pages, til she finds the poem in question and begins to read.

"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being," as she starts to find the rhythm to the words, he dials up the power on the toy, setting it to a low, steady pulsing that compliments the way the phrases tumble from her mouth, that encourages drawing in deeper breaths and the pause between lines and stanzas. Even when he's not actually adjusting it, he idly runs fingertip over the controls, aware that her gaze sneaks up to him often to try and gauge his response. Better -- for him at least -- if she's kept in suspense. 

Then, she stumbles. "On the blue surface of thine aëry surge," proves a touch too difficult with the old-fashioned spelling and nature of the aery itself. Solus supposes it's not a word used as often now, which is truly unfortunate. With a dramatic sigh of disappointment, surely audible even over her voice and the incessant humming, he dials the power back down. She looks back up at him, eyes widened, her pupils dilated and the whites showing around the edges. Apparently, she was enjoying herself.

"Come on! That was barely a mistake!"

He flips the power off completely and merely lifts an eyebrow, waiting. His expression settles back into the bored default, giving every indication that so far as he cares, she may sit and pout for hours with little concern on his part.

She waits.

She squirms against the still head, trying to regain sensation, then whines, and starts to read once more. Once she finds the proper rhythm again, Emet gradually nudges the dial higher with each line done properly. Well. He's allowing for a little deviation for uneven breathing or whimpers. 

At the finish of the third canto she looks up at him, her pupils blow and dilated, eyes glazed. "Mr. Galvus? I don't… think I can… I'm going to…"

Satisfaction slowly curls up the corners of his mouth and he leans back against the wall, watching her writhing hips with sadistic glee. "Keep reading. Stop to breathe or make your charming little sounds, but if you aren't trying to read when you cum, this will be your only lesson." 

With a ragged, pleading whimper, she bows her head in acknowledgement and turns her gaze back to the page, reading in a clear if unsteady voice. Since the power level seems right, he uses this as an opportunity to circle around the reading woman, enjoying the sight of her sweat-sheened muscles and flushed face from multiple angles. When she finally does break, it's mid-word with a wailing uluation, and her hands clench on the edge of his table, strong enough that he's glad it's made of very high quality wood as the Warrior bucks herself against the thick, loudly buzzing head of the toy, her panties long since so soaked with slick that the sound has gained a distinctively lurid, liquid edge. Only when Solus is sure she's wrung out and exhausted, her head falling forward, does he switch the toy to off. "Reasonable progress for a first lesson, my dear. There might be some potential in you yet."

Elegant, long-fingered hands pour ice water into the glass, pressing it to her lips. The Roegadyn woman gratefully drinks as he holds it for her, then rubs her cheek against the dampened cool glass as if she were a cat. After a few more shaking breaths, she recovers enough to murmur thickly, "I begin… to see your point… about the importance of rhythm and flow." 

He laughs, setting the glass down on the table and half-seating himself on the edge, fingertips raising her chin. It's a very pretty sight and he's not unaware that he is striking in his own way as well in comparison, angle-edged features and the shock of white against chestnut. "So, you do not regret making this a less professional and more, shall we say, physical sort of learning, my dear?" 

It's pathetic -- and arousing -- how quickly she moves to shake her head. Testing the waters, he leans down, pressing lips to hers, in a kiss that is slow and oh-so-carefully controlled, not letting her lunge forward and deepen it, but insisting on his own pace until she goes soft and accepting under him. Only then does he press mouth to mouth harder, parting oh so softly, til her breath slips to mingle with his. Finally pulling away, he stands again, cock aching and straining against his pants but refusing to show any disruption in his controlled mien. "Splendid. I have a meeting with my editor tomorrow, but the night after. Do bring an example of work where you show what you learned today, so we can see if this lesson needs repeating."

**Author's Note:**

> This one is, of course, directly and entirely, the fault of [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN). Hopefully, they are pleased with it, rather than horrified. Who knew I'd end up writing Emet? NOT ME.


End file.
